


The Ineffability Of A Bookshop Meeting

by SammyLuka



Series: The Tale Of Anthony Janthony Crowley And His 6000 Years of Pining for Sweet, Angelic Ass [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Antique Pornography, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Holding Hands, I can't believe that's not a tag, M/M, One Year Later, Or are there really no powers??, References to Oscar Wilde, Things are getting a little saucy up in here!!!, Well maybe not for another chapter or two, whatever, you'll never know - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-07-29 17:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20085898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SammyLuka/pseuds/SammyLuka
Summary: "Crowley's eyes trailed down to the piece of paper and he quickly scanned the words. ‘Aziraphale, antique bookshop owner’, it read. Underneath that was a telephone number. And underneath that was a tiny, perfectly drawn heart.OhChrist, Crowley thought.Oh God. What the hell is happening right now?"(Alternatively, in which Aziraphale is a bookshop owner and Crowley is just a dude who has a thing for Wilde. Aziraphale finds this interesting, to say the least).





	1. Chapter 1

The thing about Crowley was that he wasn’t a connoisseur of the arts in any typical way. Sure, if you put him in front of a Da Vinci long enough, he might be able to call it colorful or something of the like, but there was no appreciation further than something very baseline. He rarely watched television and he hadn’t seen a movie since _Silence of the Lambs_, and that one had been a bit underwhelming. Not nearly enough of Anthony Hopkins eating people. Who didn’t want to see that? (The answer, which Crowley chose to ignore, was most people). 

So, no, Crowley was no culture expert. He could appreciate a good story, though. He’d read quite a few books in his time, but they were very rarely considered classics, and more often referred to as ‘violent, abhorrent abominations of the literary genre’. He rather enjoyed them. 

The little bit of culture that had managed to get itself through Crowley’s wall of _Emmerdale_ and books with the word ‘Awesome’ in the title had imbued a love for a certain nineteenth-century playwright inside of him. If there was only one thing you could depend on in this mortal coil, it was that Crowley had an Oscar Wilde quote to fit whatever situation you were in at that moment.

The man himself stepped out of his black Bentley, carefully shutting the car’s door and giving her a gentle little pat for good measure. He had pulled up in front of a row of shops, little homey things that gave the appearance of desperately not wanting to be in London, though they were very much in London. They were cute little things. There was a quaint bookstore a few feet in front of Crowley, and he looked the front of it up and down. ‘A.Z. Fell and Co.’, a bannered sign above the entrance read. Nothing too special, but it was the kind of place that twenty-somethings that ran blogs and ate dandelions because they were curious and not desperate would absolutely fawn over. 

Crowley stepped onto the pavement and adjusted his sunglasses, blinking a few times behind them. It wasn’t a particularly sunny day in Soho, but he had the eyes of a geriatric mole, and usually kept to looking away from the sun.

Inside, the bookshop was just as quaint, if not more, as it was from the outside. The place smelled of dust, leather, and was that hot cocoa? It was stuffed with old leather-bound books, assorted candles (some of which looked way past their day, but still well-loved), and what looked to be a collection of antiques from around the world. Crowley stuck out like a sore thumb in his skinny jeans and Valentino. The shop seemed devoid of people entirely and Crowley was okay with this fact.

He walked slowly through the shop, gazing at bookcases and skimming over titles, most of which Crowley had never heard of. There was a surprisingly large selection of books of prophecy, which Crowley found charming. He let his fingers gently skim along the exposed spines of the books and relished in the sensation of raised fonts and textured leather brushing against his fingertips. For someone who had little appreciation for the arts, he was finding himself at home in a bookshop rather easily.

He spent another few minutes walking through, browsing the selection when a voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts. 

“No! Of course not! Well… I do believe it’s different when you put it like that…” 

Crowley turned his torso in the direction of the voice, his hips kicked out a little to steady himself. He raised an eyebrow and listened as the voice grew nearer.

“_Really_, Gabriel, I didn’t-” A sigh interrupted the high-pitched fuss that was coming from the back of the bookshop. “All right, then. Whatever you want. Is that all?” 

Suddenly, a figure came out from a door near the back of the shop and stood behind a counter that seemed to be where any kind of actual business would occur. The man was of average height with bright, platinum blond hair that seemed a bit too bright to be natural to Crowley, who knew a thing or two about hair dye. He wore a blue button-down under a velvet waistcoat, a tartan bowtie, and was that a pocket watch? He was holding an antique-looking rotary phone, one arm holding the bulk of it and his other hand holding the phone to his ear. Crowley watched as he hung up the phone and placed it onto the counter, visibly deflating.

_Wonder what his deal is_, Crowley thought to himself. He was smiling. Why was he smiling? Crowley schooled his expression back to something that was just shy of menacing and turned to once again browse the books. He assumed that the man belonged in the shop (maybe the owner or something) and decided to ignore the interruption. That was before the man started talking again.

“Oh, goodness! Hello over there!” 

Crowley turned slowly, eyebrow still raised. The man was smiling awkwardly at him, hands clasped in front of his torso. Crowley followed the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, somewhat nervously.

“Sorry about the noise, just problems with the boss. I do hope you know how that is.” 

Crowley smiled, and there was something sinister about it. He was rather proud of the fact that he was often said to give off the appearance a predator stalking prey. “‘Course I do. I’m a working Londoner, after all,” he said. There was something teasing in Crowley’s voice. His expensive look and expensive attitude conveyed that he might not have been entirely serious. The light-haired man smiled abashedly again. 

“I, um… I do hope you’re liking the shop. Is there anything, in particular, that you’re looking for?” 

“Yeah, actually. Got any Wilde?” The man, who Crowley assumed was the shopkeeper of sorts, perked up. All of a sudden, he was gallanting from behind the counter over to Crowley, who had now stood up straight and turned fully in the shopkeeper’s direction. 

“This way, over here.” Crowley followed diligently as he was led over to a shelf lined with more books, these ones looking to be better-kept than the rest. It was a tall, thin shelf and had some kind of hanging plant lining one side of it. The other side was pressed up against one of the ancient-looking walls of the shop. On top of the case (which was significantly taller than the shopkeeper, Crowley noted) was a statue of an angel. What Crowley found fascinating about the thing was that it was depicted wearing, instead of robes or some kind of toga, a three-piece suit, along with an assortment of extravagant jewelry (some kind of necklace contraption that went up the jaw and traced the neckline, a pair of earrings, and a particularly stylish pinky ring). Crowley pried his eyes away from the statue and turned back to the man beside him.

“So, are you the owner?” he asked nonchalantly.

The other man turned his attention away from one of the books, whose peeling spine he was frowning over. “Indeed I am,” he answered proudly, smiling. The man, who Crowley now knew as the owner, did a lot of smiling. Crowley wondered what he was so happy about. 

“So you must be ‘Mr. Fell’, then.” 

“Who? _Oh!_ Oh yes, of course!” The owner laughed nervously. “Of course, of course. My bookshop with my name above it, yes. You, um. You can call me Aziraphale, though.” Crowley gave him a bewildered look before turning back to the books. 

“Any recommendations?” he asked tentatively. 

“Certainly.” Aziraphale (Funny name, Crowley thought) pulled out a book. “Ah, here we are. The first illustrated edition of _The Picture of Dorian Grey_, published in 1908. The Summer Olympics were held in London that year. It was rather chilly.” He pulled out another book. “And here’s _The Importance of Being Earnest_, brandished with the appellation of ‘the Dramatic Works of Oscar Wilde’, published in 1900.” Crowley took both of the books, holding one in each hand, and got a good feel for them. They felt delicate and old and expensive and Crowley quite liked that feel. He’d gotten used to havings things of that nature under his touch.

“You’re a man of good taste if these are for yourself, Mr….” 

“Crowley, and they are.” He turned to face Aziraphale and caught the man looking at him. His eyes were traveling over Crowley’s body in a way that seemed a bit deeper than just observing his outfit. Crowley looked away before Aziraphale could realize he’d been caught.

“A Wilde fan, then?” 

“Yeah. He and I... have some things in common.” Crowley wasn’t just talking about their shared scintillating wit. The surprise on Aziraphale's face told Crowley that he’d understood what he had meant. Some things probably shouldn’t have been that surprising, though. Crowley _was_ wearing women’s jeans, after all. 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. If you need…” Aziraphale trailed off for a millisecond. “If you, erm, want anything, I’ll be by the counter.”

Crowley smiled that sinister smile once again. He looked at Aziraphale from under his glasses. “I’ll be sure to ask.”

Aziraphale swallowed, gave Crowley one last nod, then walked off in the direction of the counter. Crowley felt a sense of something like accomplishment surge through him.

___ 

After going through the entire selection of Wilde, which was quite extensive, and taking another stroll through the shop, Crowley decided on two books. One was the copy of _Dorian Grey_ that Aziraphale had picked out, and the other was a first edition version of _Hamlet_, which was just oddly different enough from the version Crowley knew that he felt compelled to buy it. The books would make a nice addition to the homey feel he was trying to conjure in his otherwise cold, modern apartment. Before walking back to the counter, Crowley took one last look at the odd angel statue and wondered why it seemed familiar, yet so far-out. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of it for what he called ‘safekeeping’. He’d look into that later.

Crowley walked back in the direction of the counter. He saw that Aziraphale was sitting behind it, a pair of what looked to be reading glasses on as he intensively surveyed a book on the surface in front of him. Crowley watched and felt that the other’s concentration was palpable. _Some book._

“‘S a nice selection you’ve got here,” Crowley commented. He walked up to the counter and leaned over it, placing his elbows on either side of the book Aziraphale was reading. The owner quickly looked up, taking his glasses off. He looked at Crowley with wide eyes. 

Their faces were very close all of a sudden. Crowley smiled. Aziraphale swallowed. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale practically squeaked. Crowley pulled back and watched as the owner took a proper breath, now that he had his own space. Crowley placed the books he’d chosen on the counter. Aziraphale stood from the chair he was sitting on and slid the literature around so that he could see the titles. 

“_Hamlet_? So you enjoy Shakespeare too?” Aziraphale flipped through the book as he asked the question, probably checking for damage, folded pages, or maybe something else entirely. Whatever the reason, he looked very professional while he did it. Crowley watched his hands. They worked with a certain grace that must’ve come with experience handling books and pages. Crowley noticed he was wearing a pinky ring that seemed vaguely familiar. 

“I can take it or leave it. I do love a bit of irony, though.”

“How do you mean?” Aziraphale looked genuinely confused.

Crowley waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Doesn’t matter. How much’ll it be?”

Aziraphale carefully stacked the two books on top of each other, then reached under the counter for a paper bag. The brown paper was brandished with a logo of two wings on it, with the bookshop’s name underneath it. He slid the two books inside and gave them a gentle pat. Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, who was watching the other’s graceful movements like a beady-eyed snake (who was wearing sunglasses). 

“I, um… I’m happy to service a fellow Wilde aficionado, so let’s say that one’s on me. Don’t try to refuse, because I’ll just change the price anyways.” Aziraphale cleared his throat and straightened, seemingly imbued with more confidence. “It’ll be sixty pounds.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say. He was torn between being snarky and thankful. He decided to instead keep his mouth shut for once. If he’d been looking in a mirror, he probably would’ve been sorely disappointed with how tender his expression was.

“I appreciate it,” was what he managed to say, fumbling with his back pocket to pull out his wallet. He pulled out a few notes and placed them on the counter. Aziraphale took them, counted them, put them in a register, and took out the necessary change to give back to Crowley. He also reached for a notepad and a pen beside the register.

“Here-” Aziraphale started, and he began writing something out. “-Is, erm. My mobile phone number. In case you have any… questions or concerns. About the books, that is.” When the shopkeeper looked up from the pad, there was a slight bit of pink dusting the otherwise smooth, pale skin of his cheeks. Aziraphale ripped the piece of paper from the pad, put it together with the notes, and handed it to Crowley. 

Crowley was, again, a bit speechless. Maybe more than a bit. 

He took what was being offered as an automatic reflex. His eyes trailed down to the piece of paper and he quickly scanned the words. ‘_Aziraphale, antique bookshop owner_’, it read. Underneath that was a telephone number. And underneath that was a tiny, perfectly drawn heart.

_Oh_ Christ, Crowley thought. _Oh God. What the hell is happening right now?_

He cleared his throat. “About the books. ‘Course.” Crowley stuck the paper and notes in his back pocket. He placed one of his hands on the counter and leaned his weight against it so that he and Aziraphale were a bit closer, once again. “If I wanted to ring you about something other than books, though, would the line still be open?” he asked quietly. He was smiling again. He’d regained his composure.

Aziraphale smiled too, but it was hesitant and something like shy. “I believe it would be.”

Crowley straightened up and took the bag of books from the counter. “Well then,” he started. “Pleasure doing business with you, _Aziraphale_.” Crowley added an inflection to the pronunciation of Aziraphale’s name that sent a shiver down the shopkeeper’s spine. Crowley knew exactly what he was doing and when he realized it had been a job well done, he gave a little wave and began walking towards the door. 

When he was a few steps from exiting, Aziraphale’s voice piped up again. “Wait! Can I at least get your first name?”

Crowley turned around. He tipped his sunglasses downward so he could really look at Aziraphale. 

“Next time. Gotta run.” And then he was out the door.

Outside, Crowley walked to his car, feeling accomplished. 

Somewhere else, it was determined that he’d just made Oscar Wilde very proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, making up parts of azi's bookshop because i couldn't find good enough pics of the interior: this is fine
> 
> aren't they such beautiful disaster gays


	2. Chapter 2

When Crowley arrived back at his apartment, he was excited in a way he hadn’t been in a while. A mixture of the anticipation of newly bought items waiting to find a home plus whatever he was feeling about the Aziraphale situation had him smiling and whistling a tune by Queen the whole way back. He abided by even _fewer_ traffic laws than usual. 

It had been quite a while since Crowley had last seduced someone. He used the word seduced because ‘romancing’ wasn’t something he did. Attachment, commitment, dedication, the whole nine yards - Crowley wasn’t… into that. The intimacy thing was purely for his own pleasure and usually didn’t last long. Nothing gold can stay, after all. Crowley had made a habit of taking what he wanted and leaving people in the dust. Whether that was seen as a bad habit or not depended on the person. 

He was excited to be back in the game, so to speak. His interaction with Aziraphale could really only be described as exhilarating and it provided him with a sensation he hadn’t felt in a while. 

Crowley walked into his apartment and threw his keys into a bowl by the door. He dropped the bag with the books on a coffee table and flopped down on his couch. He was smiling again. This time, he let the expression keep its place. 

“Today was a good day,” Crowley suddenly and loudly announced into the silence. He snapped his head to the side to face his kitchen. “You better not ruin this.” Inside the room, he had a garden of houseplants; leafy things that were greener and brighter than most anything you’d find at Kew Gardens. 

Crowley hopped up from the couch and stalked into the kitchen (which was more of a solarium than kitchen at that point). When he walked in, it seemed as though the plants stood at attention. 

“I’m in a very good mood right now,” he hissed. He sauntered further into the room, surveying the greenery around him. He felt at a leaf or two and was contented to see that the plants were mostly in shape. “There better be no spots, browns, or wilts to ruin this for me.”

Crowley was pleasantly surprised to find out that there were no spots in sight to sour his mood. He gave the plants one more warning look before walking past and to the next room, where his landline lie. Crowley took the paper given to him by Aziraphale, which had been burning a hole in his jeans, out of his pocket. He placed it next to the telephone. 

“Not tonight. Too early,” he said to himself. _Don’t be eager. Why are you being eager?_ Crowley looked at his reflection in a window across from him. He gave himself a bewildered look. 

He was allowing himself to be excited, but something about this particular situation felt different. Crowley picked the paper up and turned it over, smacking it face-down back on the desk with force. He would call tomorrow. Well, maybe not call, because that was still eager, but he would _think_ about it tomorrow. 

Crowley ended up spending the rest of his night in. He eventually settled, and resolved to end his night by watching _City of Angels_, because he had horrible taste and it was late at night and he was feeling -dare he say it- a little romantic.

___ 

The next day, Crowley was still feeling something like excited. Which was weird. The last thing he’d gotten this excited for was Prada’s latest Fashion Week collection, and even that had lasted only about three hours.

Crowley felt elated. He felt lightened. He felt animated, excited, jubilant, any number of words to describe joy. He felt like he had something to look forward to. 

He didn’t like it. 

He attempted to quell his excitement by making himself breakfast and going over what he had to do that day, which was not very much. Drop off dry cleaning, water plants, anonymously send supplies to a cat shelter he frequented. Not very much at all. 

When Crowley walked into the room that functioned as his office, he couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering towards the paper that he’d gotten from Aziraphale. Looking at it reminded him of the events of the day before, and he realized he’d never taken the books off of his coffee table. He looked down at his desk and back up in the direction of the books. He was incredibly tempted to pick up the phone. It was three in the afternoon, which Crowley reasoned was a perfectly normal time to call possible suitors the day after you meet them. Another part of his brain (a part which was more like himself) told him that he was pathetic and he needed to take a cold shower immediately. That side won rather quickly. 

Crowley decided to instead find a home for his newly-bought books, which he was very happy with. Taking them out of the bag (which he folded up and placed on his bedside table for no particular reason at all), he couldn’t help but marvel at their delicate nature. They were pretty books, and they were expensive books, and Crowley liked both of those things. He held them in his hands and walked around his flat, wondering where they should be put. He didn’t often get visitors, so it wasn’t like he really needed to show them off. For that reason, he resolved to place them on a shelf in his bedroom, where he’d be able to see them from his bed. They definitely made the place look a little more human. 

After settling the books in their new home, Crowley set off to complete the rest of his chores. He watered his plants (which involved not just watering them, but also a round of smack-talk that brought his mood up a little), got his dry cleaning together, and sent an assortment of cleaning supplies and kitten treats to the shelter using Amazon. Not that he would ever admit to that last one. 

When he was all done, and the only thing left to do was drop off the dry cleaning, he found his mind wandering in the direction of a certain light-haired bookshop owner once again. This feeling that was pestering him from the back of his mind was starting to bother Crowley. He was sure that he had other things to do. If he was a little more clear-headed, he might’ve actually known what those things were. 

Crowley eventually made the decision to leave his flat and get into his car, dry-cleaning in tow. He had a washer, but not a dryer, and anyways, he preferred to have certain pieces of clothing handled with professional care. He wouldn’t say that he was extravagant, but he was extravagant. With a foot stamping down on the gas pedal, Crowley began driving.

___ 

He didn’t end up at the dry cleaners. He actually ended up in front of a quaint bookshop in the middle of Soho. It was Aziraphale’s shop - he was at Aziraphale’s shop. _This was bound to happen_, a voice from within Crowley sighed. The voice sounded exhausted.

Crowley wasn’t sure if the shop was even open. When he’d been looking for antique-specializing bookshops and had stumbled across Aziraphale’s, he’d been immediately interested by the incredibly odd hours the shop kept. One day the shop was open from three in the morning to eight in the morning, another was open every other hour from twelve in the afternoon to seven at night. There were reviews talking about how they’d been kicked out of the shop exactly on the hour that it was closing again. He hoped that today was one of those days that actually kept humanly possibly hours. 

Crowley decided that he would ask Aziraphale about his odd hours. He had other things to ask as well. He wanted to know who Aziraphale was. He seemed to have an interesting life. Interesting to Crowley, at the least. Crowley’s life wasn’t one that might typically be denoted as ‘interesting’. He did work things, he did house things, he did personal things. It was monotonous. He added his own personal spice to everything he did, which made it a bit more manageable, but it wasn’t as good as it could’ve been. 

Crowley got out of the car. He closed the door and leaned against it, looking at the bookshop. It was a rather nice shop, when you really looked at it. It was a corner store and had plenty of room for existence. It wouldn’t have hurt to put a few tables and some chairs outside for outdoor reading, Crowley noted. 

Walking up to the door, a part of Crowley that hadn’t been awoken in quite a while became active. He took hold of the door handle, and that part of his mind was begging _Please be open, please be open, please be open_. He turned, he pulled, the door came loose, and opened up. He let himself feel triumphant inside his own mind for just a few seconds, then schooled his emotions and expression.

Crowley sauntered into the shop confidently. The scenery was the same as it had been when he’d last come in, but some of the candles littered around the building were now lit. It gave the otherwise dark shop a romantic feeling, but in the way that Crowley could actually deal with, like a nineteenth century brothel, or a Hackney pub at night. Same thing, really. There was an energy in the building that seemed to wrap Crowley up and soothe him in a deep-down, instinctive way. He wondered if it was incense or something. 

Crowley walked in the direction of the front counter and was pleasantly surprised to find Aziraphale sitting there, reading a book intently like he had been the day before. Something inside of Crowley complained that he’d been there only the day before, but he ignored it. Did he have anything better to do? No, he didn’t. Shut up, brain. 

Aziraphale looked up when he realized someone was coming over. Upon seeing who it was, he broke out into a grin that warmed a part of Crowley that he hadn’t realized was cold. 

“Hello there,” Aziraphale greeted. 

“Hi,” Crowley returned. He was leaning against the counter, but allowing a bit of space between them. It suddenly occurred to Crowley that he had no reason for being there. He wondered if he could start a conversation without having to bring up that fact. 

“What brings you back?” Aziraphale asked. _Perfect_. Crowley internally sighed. 

“Nothing to do on a Sunday afternoon,” Crowley confidently bull-shitted. “Thought I might like to look at some more old books. There’s lots of pretty things in this shop of yours.” Crowley turned his head to look around the shop, because he was definitely only talking about the shop. He still had it (or maybe he didn’t, but he would never be able to tell the difference and, frankly, neither would Aziraphale). 

“I… Thank you,” Aziraphale managed. 

“‘Course.” Crowley made no move to go browse the books. “What’cha reading?” he asked instead.

Aziraphale perked up. He seemed excited that someone had asked. Crowley thought it was cute. Like a puppy who was being thrown a ball for the first time in weeks. Aziraphale closed the book, keeping his place with one finger, and held it up to show Crowley. The cover read _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_. It seemed eccentric, similar to the man holding it. “It’s a book of prophecy, you see. It’s said to be the only entirely accurate book of prophecy in the world.”

Crowley cocked his head to the side. “Well, is it?”

“I can’t technically say. But, it did predict the rise of Apple. And the Watergate scandal, actually.”

Crowley hummed introspectively. “I think most of us could’ve predicted Watergate, actually.”

Aziraphale looked at the book sadly. “I was never that interested in American politics.” He placed the book back on the counter and looked up at Crowley sheepishly. “Is it appropriate to ask you if you’re really here to look at more books, Mr. Crowley? Besides this one, of course.”

Crowley smiled. “Dunno if it’s appropriate, but the answer would be no.” And, there it was. His intentions laid out in front of them like the book on the counter they were both leaning against. It was refreshing.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale started. He sat up, pulling down on his waistcoat to straighten his appearance. “May I ask why you _are_ here, then?”

Crowley was again suddenly struck with the realization that he didn’t really know _why_ he was there. _For Aziraphale_, a part of his brain piped in. _I can’t exactly tell him that, can I?_ another part responded.

“I was just wondering if I could, uh... tempt you to a spot of coffee at some point,” is what Crowley decided he was going with. Innocuous, innocent, but could insinuate the promise of more. He was proud of his wording.

“‘Tempt me?’” Aziraphale looked very interested. “I think I’d like that.”

“Good. How does sometime this week sound?”

“Well,” Aziraphale stuck a bookmark inside of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ and closed it. “The shop does close in the next half hour. Not to sound particularly eager, but how does today sound?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “All right, then. Like I said, not much else to do on a Sunday.”

Aziraphale stood up. “I think I might close the shop early. After you?” He picked up his book and placed it somewhere underneath the counter, then grabbed a coat from a rack behind him. Crowley smiled. He was impressed by Aziraphale’s forwardness. It made the whole roma- nope, _seduction_ thing easier for him. He walked away from the counter and Aziraphale came after him. Together they walked out of the shop and Crowley led him in the direction of the Bentley.

“I hope you don’t mind me driving,” Crowley interjected politely.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale assured. “Your idea, you get to drive. Is this one yours?” He motioned to the Bentley. Crowley smiled proudly.

“Indeed she is.” Crowley walked around to the passenger’s side and opened the door for Aziraphale. Inside, Crowley’s dry cleaning was still sitting on the passenger’s seat, a glaring reminder of how whipped he was. He wasn’t entirely aware of that yet, so he simply reached inside, threw the clothes into the backseat, and moved out of the way so Aziraphale could get in. The bookshop owner smiled and that slight blush made a reappearance on his cheeks. Something inside of Crowley -for lack of a better term- _fluttered_. Crowley ignored the stomach-turning (maybe indigestion, maybe something worse) and got in on the driver’s side.

As he was starting the car, Aziraphale piped up. “Do you have somewhere in mind to go, or…?”

“I do.” Crowley tried to sound reassuring. “There’s this little place in Chelsea that I feel like you’d appreciate. Trust me?” He turned to face Aziraphale. He realized that this was probably a big step for both of them, and it might benefit them to form a little trust before Crowley started driving them to random places in London. Aziraphale seemed to work out something in his mind and then faced Crowley with a pleasant smile.

“I trust you. Enough.” There was something teasing in Aziraphale’s tone and Crowley was decidedly attracted to it.

“Perfect.” Crowley shifted the car into the right gear and began driving. “Off we go”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmmm i wonder if there's more to azi than meets the eye  
you should,,,,, wait for updates to find out 
> 
> leave me comments or i'll smite you or something   
jk i love you all too much to do that <3<3<3 i'm saving my power to spiritually send neil gaiman, michael sheen, and david tennant flowers every day


	3. Chapter 3

After what was supposed to be a twenty-minute drive, but ended up being fifteen minutes because traffic laws seemed to bend around Crowley, they arrived at what appeared to be a brick wall surrounding a solid bit of a London block. They both got out of the car and walked around the wall towards an entrance. Beside a doorway shadowed by ivy, it read ‘Chelsea Physic Garden’. 

“I’m beginning to think you’ve brought me out for something different than coffee,” Aziraphale noted as they walked through the doorway. Crowley chuckled. Upon walking in and looking up, Aziraphale visibility shut up. Inside, it felt as though they’d walked into the state garden of nineteenth-century royalty. It was a wide-open space, littered with lush greenery and gardens of all different kinds. There was a grand statue half-hidden by a row of bushes somewhere further down in the space, and a selection of greenhouses next to that. It felt fantasy-esque.

“Don’t worry, there’s a café.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a quick smile and walked past him, towards a little booth with a large ‘Welcome!’ sign standing in front of it. A young, thin woman wearing tortoiseshell glasses stood inside the booth, looking down at her phone. Crowley walked up to her. 

“Hi! Two adults.” She looked up and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, then offered him a pleasant smile. 

“Of course. Is this your first time?” She reached to grab two tickets from behind her. 

“_I_ actually have a membership, though I’m pretty sure this is his first time. Am I correct?” Crowley turned to Aziraphale, elbowing him in the side. Aziraphale gently slapped his arm away.

“This is indeed my first time. I have no idea where I am right now, to be honest.” 

The woman in the booth smiled. “This would be the Chelsea Physic Garden, sir.” She looked over to Crowley. “You tryin’ to show off or can I give him a little history?” she fake-whispered behind her hand. 

“Please, go ahead.” He extended his arms in a go-head gesture. Aziraphale listened intently as she began to explain the history of the garden. The garden had been founded in 1673 by the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries as a space to grow plants and herbs to be used in medicines. Crowley only half-paid attention, the other half of his brain looking around the garden and up at the blue sky spotted with fluffy clouds above them. This really was a gorgeous spot. 

When the woman was finished explaining the garden’s history, Crowley leaned forward to join their realm of existence again. In his hand, he had the money for both his and Aziraphale’s admission. He slid it towards her, and when he sensed Aziraphale opening his mouth to protest, he reached back and patted the other’s chest. “It was my idea, it’s on me,” he said without turning around to look at Aziraphale. “Is the café open?” he asked the woman in the booth. Aziraphale huffed something unintelligible, but stayed quiet. 

The woman watched them with a smile, then brightened upon being asked the question. “It is! We’re not serving dinner tonight, so you might have to be gone by 6, but there’s plenty of time for pastries and coffee before then.”

“That’s perfect. Thanks, doll.” Crowley gave her one last smile that was almost convincingly not-forced. 

She handed them each an informational pamphlet that doubled as a map of the garden. “I’ll let you fellas go and enjoy the nature. Tell your friends that this is a good date spot!”

They’d already started walking away, but Crowley turned around at the last remark to give the woman a wink. “‘Course,” he mouthed. Aziraphale blushed. 

Crowley quickly took the lead as they walked. Aziraphale was, frankly, fine with it. It gave him a chance to appreciate the magnificence of the space they were strolling through. Greens and purples and pinks and big plants and small plants and wonderful smells greeted him from every angle and it was _marvelous_. He wondered how a) this place was located in Central London and he’d never heard of it and b) how Crowley had. 

They were walking through rather fast and Aziraphale was gearing up to say as much when he noticed that Crowley was leading them in the direction of a building. It was a sweet cobbled thing with a covered terrace outside. There looked to be a gift shop beside it, and next to that were the greenhouses Aziraphale had noticed before. 

“Oh, dear boy,” Aziraphale breathed. “This is lovely.”

Crowley chuckled. He slowed his pace so that he was walking next to Aziraphale as they approached the café. “Isn’t it nice? It’s a favorite spot of mine. Just don’t tell anyone.” 

“Oh, of course. I wouldn’t dare to give up your secrets just yet.” Aziraphale fixed Crowley with a pleasant smile and that fluttering in the pit of Crowley’s stomach made an appearance yet again. He resisted the urge to smack his own stomach. That wouldn’t make the best impression on a first date. Speaking of, _were they on a first date?_ Crowley internally blanked. They had met the day before. It was the next day. He had gone to the bookshop after being hesitant to even _call_ Aziraphale. Now, he’d brought Aziraphale to a spot which he considered his very own Garden of Eden, minus the sin (at least for now). These things very obviously added up to something, but Crowley was a little bit too emotionally stunted to realize this just yet. Or maybe he was just a little thick. 

“Hi there,” a young man wearing a yellow cable knit sweater greeted as they walked into the covered terrace. Aziraphale immediately offered a pleasant smile, but Crowley stood there, looking at the ground, with eyes wide and blank behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale cleared his throat, but it was to no avail. 

“Is it just the two of you?” the young man asked, trying not to stare at Crowley. Aziraphale nodded. “Follow me.” 

The man began walking and Aziraphale, realizing he had to take action, elbowed Crowley in the side, and was surprised to find that it was a very bony side he’d just jabbed his elbow into. Crowley certainly looked on the thinner side, but not that thin. Crowley looked up quickly, realized what was happening, and started trotting after the young man. 

“Would you like to sit inside or outside?” the young man asked once they’d been led inside the covered area. It was a little room with AstroTurf covering the ground and a clear, plastic covering surrounding the whole thing. On the ceiling were bladed fans and an assortment of parasols that spun when wind picked up through the space. Crowley smiled as he surveyed the room that was familiar to him. 

“Outside is good.” He looked around and noticed that there was one table open, perfectly situated to look at the garden and be far enough away from the rest of the crowd that it would be quiet and peaceful. The young man nodded and led them to the spot. It was like it had opened up just for them. 

They sat down, and Crowley noticed that Aziraphale still looked in awe of the whole place. He watched the other’s face as he looked around the room and out to the garden, which was entirely visible through the open design of the see-through room. Crowley watched Aziraphale’s face for a few happy moments, then looked down at the paper menu they’d been handed. He already knew what he wanted, but he needed an excuse not to be looking at Aziraphale. 

Eventually, the man in the cable sweater (whose name they’d learned was Harry) came over with the drinks they’d ordered and a piece of citrus cake that Harry told them was, “Compliments of the cafe for the sweet couple.” Aziraphale had gone a bit red at that and Crowley had just shaken his head. 

They both took sips of their respective drinks and stared at the cake with differing expressions. Aziraphale looked like he was watching a video of a baby hugging a puppy and Crowley looked like he was watching that same video, but disliked both babies and puppies. 

After a few seconds, Aziraphale piped up. “It only seems fitting that I ask you what you do for a living.”

“Is that so?” Crowley looked up from the pastry in between them. He leaned back in his chair and fixed Aziraphale with that sinister smile. “I guess you’re right.”

“Well?”

“I’m the CMO of Waterstones, actually. My job is to tempt people into buying overpriced hardcovers.”

Aziraphale gaped. “You’re joking.”

“Deadly serious.”

“Oh, no. That won’t work.” Aziraphale was very curt about his response.

“What?”

“My dear boy, I’m afraid we can no longer be friends.” Aziraphale held his hands up in a ‘That’s that’ gesture. Crowley hoped that meant he was joking. 

Aziraphale leaned forward to take a bit of the cake with his fork and bring to his mouth. He hummed contentedly. Crowley stopped himself from watching and instead picked up his drink. “Why’s that?”

“You and I are supposed to be enemies. We’re on two sides of a war. I’m a private bookshop owner, you work for the largest book distributor in England. I’m afraid you’re going to have to go and find a Starbucks of your own.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows in surprise. Aziraphale had some jokes in him, then. That was good to know. “Very funny.” Crowley slung an arm over the back of his chair and slid down a bit. He was getting comfortable.

“Oh, it’s not funny at all. Your side are the reason that people like me work like dogs just to sell an antique Austen.”

“My lot have nothing to do with that. You just sell boring books,” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Then why’d you take two of them home?”

“Oh, hush up.”

___ 

They ended up spending about forty-five minutes at that table, chatting with each other. Crowley learned that he rather liked talking to Aziraphale. It felt different than talking with others did. It was like they’d known each other all their lives and were finding each other after years of being apart. Talking to Aziraphale made Crowley oddly poetic, he realized. 

Crowley learned that Aziraphale had owned his shop for ten years and that it had originally been an idea to store his extensive collection of antique books. He’d soon realized that he needed to actually make money to pay rent and that he enjoyed helping fellow connoisseurs of the arts broaden their own collections. He’d also learned that Aziraphale’s favorite movie was _Bridget Jones’s Diary_ (“Don’t make fun of me!” he’d said. “It’s a feel-good film. I can’t read Dickens _all_ the time.”), his hair color _was_ natural, and he hadn’t been in a relationship since 2004. 

When they’d finished (and Crowley had paid the bill because, “Again, my idea.”), they walked back out into the garden. The sky had become a bit cloudy and Crowley was grateful for it, as it made everything a little easier on his eyes. The walk was pleasant, even more pleasant with good company, and Crowley was exhilarated as his hand brushed Aziraphale’s while they walked more than a few times. They eventually ended up in a section entirely composed of edible plants, which was rather interesting to walk through. Aziraphale realized that he had no idea what half of the produce he consumed looked like as it grew. 

“So,” Crowley started, filling in the comfortable silence that had fallen over them as they’d started walking. Crowley ran his fingers over a plant as he walked past it. It was prickly. 

“So,” Aziraphale offered in return. He looked over to Crowley, who was watching the floor as he walked. 

“Erm,” Crowley managed. “Would you like to do this again sometime?” His tone was hesitant. He cursed himself internally. He was very rarely this unsure of himself. He worked in business, and his job relied on his being confident when pitching advertising and marketing ideas to a team of cut-throat, suit-wearing demons. But now, Crowley was nervous. This… _thing_ that was developing with Aziraphale made him happy, and whoever-is-up-above knew that he didn’t want to screw it up just yet.

“I think I would like that very much,” Aziraphale said, pulling Crowley from his own thoughts. Crowley smiled. He suddenly felt very small and very lost. He noticed that they were walking past what looked to be an apple tree. There was a little plaque underneath it that confirmed that it was in fact an apple tree. As they walked past it, Crowley grabbed one of the ripe, red fruits and pulled it off a branch. He shined it with his shirt and inspected it before offering it to Aziraphale, who chuckled. 

“A nice gesture, but that cake was enough sweetness for me,” Aziraphale reasoned, shaking his head.

Crowley turned around so that he was walking backward in front of Aziraphale. He was still holding the apple out, tempting Aziraphale to take it. “Oh come on, Aziraphale,” he hissed. “A little fruit never hurt anyone.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes but took the fruit. Crowley grinned and fell back into step beside him. “You’re an odd one, Mr. Crowley.” Aziraphale rolled the piece of fruit around in his hands. “Now, am I allowed to know your first name, or is that information still being withheld?” 

Crowley chuckled. “It’s, erm. It’s Anthony. But people don’t call me that. Only my mum did and she’s, well, she’s long gone. I prefer Crowley.” He was vaguely sad for a few seconds, but then he felt Aziraphale’s fingers brush against his again and his body felt alight with something very different. Crowley reached out and, without hesitation, hooked his pointer finger around one of Aziraphale’s. The bookshop owner took care of the rest, lacing their hands together. Crowley looked down at the ground and hoped his smile wasn’t that obvious.

“I’d be more than happy to see you again next week, dear boy,” Aziraphale said quietly. Crowley looked up and his expression was hopeful.

“Good to hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw the chelsea physic garden is a real place and it's gorgeous and if you live in london or are ever visiting you should check it out!
> 
> isn't crowley such a stupid tender softie? i love him
> 
> (by the way for all you silly americans like me, waterstones is basically british barnes & noble)


	4. Chapter 4

After three weeks, four dates, and a few more antique books, Crowley finally managed to work up the courage to ask Aziraphale to come over to his apartment. There wasn’t even an underlying connotation to it - he simply felt it natural that they spend some time together away from the prying eyes of the rest of the world. And, for God’s sake, they hadn’t done more than _hold hands_ and it was starting to unnerve Crowley. There was still a hissing voice in the back of his mind constantly repeating that he didn’t do whatever this was, that they should’ve slept together by now, that there were too many _feelings_ involved with this whole thing; Feelings that Crowley couldn’t decipher half the time, feelings that suddenly and randomly clawed at the inside of his chest and turned his stomach into knots, feelings that he’d told himself he would never feel again. But, here we are. The stupid bastard couldn’t stop his heart from doing it wanted if he ripped it out of his chest and stomped it into the ground. The cat shelter said that plain and clearly. 

“Crowley, are you all right?” 

Crowley quickly looked up, Aziraphale’s voice pulling him from the recesses of his own mind. 

“Yeah, ‘course, why do you ask?” Crowley looked at Aziraphale sheepishly. He knew exactly why he was asking. Crowley still had his glasses on, even though they were in his own flat. Aziraphale was looking intently into the lenses of the glasses. They served as a kind of barrier between them, and Crowley wasn’t sure if he entirely disliked that idea. 

“Well, I’ve asked you what film you’d like to watch three times now and you’ve stared a hole into that bowl of crisps instead of answering me.”

“Sorry. You can pick.” Crowley patted Aziraphale on the knee then shifted so he could tuck his legs up under himself. He pulled out his mobile and absentmindedly started scrolling. Crowley was just about to watch a video of a snake lovingly wrapping itself around a dog when he felt a hand touch his wrist. He looked at it, realized it was Aziraphale’s hand, and looked up at the man it belonged to. “What?” 

“There’s something on your mind,” Aziraphale said softly. “I can tell.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale. His expression was blank. Aziraphale looked concerned, like he cared. Crowley knew that he cared. He texted Crowley to ask him how he was doing every morning, and brought him a new book (all of which Crowley actually loved) every time they saw each other, and seemed to know Crowley in an intimate way that usually took years of knowing each other for. Aziraphale knew Crowley very well and Crowley didn’t see a problem with it. 

“I donate supplies to a cat shelter called Kitten’s Mittens every month,” Crowley suddenly blurted. He swallowed nervously. “I don’t know why I do it and I don’t know why I’m still doing it, but I do and I love it.”

Aziraphale started at him. “Oh. All right.” There was a moment of staring at each other and then Aziraphale was reaching up with two hands and they were coming towards Crowley’s face and Crowley sat stock-still, his breath coming out in short, static bursts. Aziraphale took the sides of Crowley’s sunglasses in his fingers, but didn’t pull them off. 

“Can I..?” he asked quietly. Aziraphale’s voice served as a balm that almost immediately soothed Crowley’s anxieties. After a few seconds, Crowley nodded minisculely, so much so that Aziraphale almost missed it. When Aziraphale realized that he’d been given the go-ahead, he pulled off the glasses. Slowly but surely, Crowley’s eyes were revealed. His irises were a unique color - what was once brown had almost yellowed as his eyesight had gotten worse over time. At that moment, his pupils were blown wide and he only blinked once every minute or so. He was a textbook picture of a deer in headlights. 

“It’s… They look like that… I’ve got an eye thing,” Crowley managed to mumble. His gaze dropped and he looked down at Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale carefully folded the arms of Crowley’s glasses and placed them on the coffee table in front of them. He turned back to face Crowley and reached a hand up yet again. This time he cupped Crowley’s cheeks. 

Crowley felt like he was melting from the inside out. 

“They’re gorgeous,” Aziraphale whispered. 

Burning. Crowley felt like he was _burning_. 

As if some kind of invisible, undeniable force of nature, they both slowly started leaning in, closer and closer and closer, until their faces were just inches apart. Their noses brushed. Aziraphale’s thumb skimmed over Crowley’s cheekbone in such a tender, considerate way that Crowley felt like he could start crying right then and there. 

And then Aziraphale closed the distance. Their lips connected, and (in the most gaudy, clichéd, _romantic_ way possible) it felt like coming home. Crowley felt like he was burning from the inside out, a fire consuming him so completely, so wholly, so perfectly. Their lips fit together in a way that was indescribable, or maybe Crowley was just in ecstasy. Either way, he decided that he’d have to kiss Aziraphale again to make sure he was getting the indescribable nature right. 

They kissed for what felt like hours. Somehow, Crowley had managed to push Aziraphale back onto the couch and had crawled on top of him, laying his body over Aziraphale’s. They’d started off fervently, two beings who’d been without affection for so long, but had become lazy and languid. Their touches had quickly gone from awkward and out-of-practice to warm and wanting. Aziraphale ran a hand through Crowley’s hair and grabbed at his back in a way that had Crowley holding back rather embarrassing noises in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

___ 

After spending almost two hours lip-locked with a man who was but a bookshop owner to him only a month ago, Crowley learned three things: 1) Aziraphale was _very_ good with his tongue and was most definitely aware of this fact, 2) Crowley could go exactly two minutes and twelve seconds at the most without breathing, and 3) he was either going to have to kill his neighbors, or move. One was preferable to the other, and it wasn’t the moving option.

Crowley wasn’t good at taking things slow. This was evident by not only his style of driving, but almost everything about him. His penchant for moving fast often bled into his love life (or, more accurately, lust life). This, inevitably, was happening with Aziraphale, on a grander scale but also as they were laying there on the couch together. At almost exactly the two hour mark, Crowley’s shirt unbuttoned and hanging from his elbows, he’d reached down to fumble with the zip on Aziraphale’s pants. Aziraphale let his head fall back against the couch, mouth slightly agape, staring at the ceiling with hooded eyes. Crowley was grinning at him. He’d regained a bit of his confidence and was using it to his advantage. As he’d popped open the button to the khaki monstrosities that Crowley would have to comment on another day, there’d been a light but incessant knocking noise coming from the direction of his front door. Crowley tensed for just a moment, then decided to ignore it, because what he was doing just then was _far_ more important than whatever was at his door. 

Just as he was about to pull Aziraphale’s shirt from his pants, there was another knock, this time a little more insistent. Crowley was poised and ready to ignore it again, but Aziraphale reached over and grabbed his wrist, stopping him from continuing. “Crowley.” He gave Crowley a knowing look. 

Crowley whined. “It’s definitely not important. Nothing important ever comes here.”

“_Crowley_.”

Crowley sighed. “Christ, fine.” He got up in a surprisingly fluid movement that Aziraphale watched _very_ intently and grabbed his sunglasses, then walked to the door. He had the decency to at least pull his shirt up so it was once again on his shoulders and he pulled it closed, similar to a lady in a film covering her modesty with a silky bathrobe. He felt elegant. 

Crowley ripped open the door and stared at whoever was behind it. It was a petite woman with loud, orange hair and a face of equally loud makeup. 

“Hi, Madame Tracy. I was just about to hop in the shower. What do you want?” He added a little bit of venom to that last part. 

Madame Tracy was Crowley’s neighbor. She lived two doors down in an apartment that Crowley could only describe as hideously decorated but lovingly used. He could usually tolerate her and even sometimes enjoyed her presence, but he was a little… stiff at that moment. “Hello, Mr. Crowley. Mr. S and I just finished up supper and have quite a bit left over, and I was hoping you’d take some. Goodness knows I can’t hold all of it in my fridge.” She offered him a pleasant smile. “And word has it that you have a gentleman over…” 

Crowley sighed. He placed a hand on his hip and, in doing so, his shirt fell open, revealing a little bit of his flushed chest. “You’re still dating that Shadwell bloke?” Crowley pursed his lips in distaste. “I don’t like him. Bit of a bigot. But, your choice. Anyways, I’m all right. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Crowley was poised to walk back into his flat when Madame Tracy placed a hand on his forearm. 

“If you need anything, dear -advice, food, supplies- just let me know. I’m just a few doors down, after all.” She gave him one last smile and walked off, the heels of her shoes clacking along as she went. Crowley furrowed his eyebrows. She was an odd bird, but Crowley liked her. He shook his head and stepped back into his flat. When he looked back at the couch, he noticed that Aziraphale was gone, but his waistcoat had been discarded and folded on the coffee table. Crowley gave the display a curious look and walked past it, into his kitchen. Inside, he heard humming and the clattering of utensils being pulled out of their resting places - sounds that were very rarely heard in Crowley’s kitchen. He walked towards the sounds (giving his plants a good glare on the way there). He ended up finding Aziraphale leaned up against one of his counters, holding a kettle and pouring water over two mugs with tea bag strings hanging off the sides. Crowley watched him silently, hands folded behind his back, leaning against a door frame. Eventually Aziraphale turned around and gave him a sparkling grin. 

“Hello, dear. I figured you’d be out there for a bit and I was getting a little lonely so… tea.” His grin stayed in tact. Crowley couldn’t stop the corners of his lips from quirking up a bit. 

“You found all of that rather easily,” Crowley commented. He took a few steps forward so he was standing next to Aziraphale and could survey the cups. A cup of tea didn’t actually sound half bad. Well, that was until Aziraphale gently placed his hands on Crowley’s hips and looped his fingers in the belt loops of Crowley’s jeans and pushed him so that the small of his back was pressed against the edge of the counter and oh _Christ_ Aziraphale was hot. Aziraphale was _hot_. He was confident in a way that Crowley never would’ve expected upon first meeting him, but was very pleased about, to say the least. 

“So, who was at the door?” Aziraphale asked nonchalantly. He leaned forward and placed a featherlight kiss to Crowley’s jaw, and it sent electricity jolting through Crowley’s body. 

“Ngk,” Crowley managed. “Just… Just a neighbor. Something about dinner or something.” Crowley’s words trailed off as Aziraphale leaned over Crowley and starting moving his lips down the other’s neck, peppering kisses along the soft skin there. Within a matter of minutes, Crowley was experiencing pure bliss. Aziraphale trailed his hands from Crowley’s hips up his sides, underneath his shirt. When he reached Crowley’s shoulders, he pushed the shirt back and let it fall to the floor, revealing the expanse of Crowley’s smooth, lithe torso. 

After that, Crowley’s recollection of the event became a little foggy. He ended up sitting on top of his kitchen counter with Aziraphale in between his legs, and they’d kissed for what felt like hours upon hours. His whole body once again felt alight, but they stayed relatively modest (meaning they kept their pants on). Even though he was becoming a puddle of malleable goo with each of Aziraphale’s kisses, he was surprisingly content to keep the rest of his clothes on. As long as Aziraphale’s hands were on him in some way, he figured he’d be fine. 

“Now, about that tea,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley _whined_ when Aziraphale took his hands off of Crowley’s chest and placed them on the counter on either side of his legs. Aziraphale chuckled and leaned forward to give Crowley one last kiss. 

Once Crowley had begrudgingly got down from the counter and Aziraphale had added hot water to their lukewarm tea, they sat at Crowley’s kitchen table and sipped the warm drink in their state of disarray. There was a very domestic quality to it and the realization of that fact added to the pink that had settled over Crowley’s cheeks. They were happy. They were content. Crowley liked this, the whole taking it a little bit slower and actually getting to know each other and maybe _having a future_ thing. 

Thinking too hard about it was bound to set Crowley into a panic, so he instead looked into his mug and then up at Aziraphale, who was giving him a very happy, smiley look. Crowley smiled back. He let himself get lost in Aziraphale’s eyes and turn his brain off for a little while.

___ 

”Hey, sex sells. I didn’t make that decision about human nature.”

“Yes, certainly, but there’s something distinctly wrong about putting it on the cover of _Pride and Prejudice_.”

“I don’t design the covers, Aziraphale. I just figure out how to sell them.”

After a long conversation in the kitchen and a few episodes of a BBC nature documentary, they’d ended up in Crowley’s bedroom. Aziraphale had eventually come to the decision to stay the night, with a little coercion from Crowley (“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. Just a suggestion,” Crowley had said nonchalantly, though his inner monologue of _Please stay Please stay Please stay_ had bled through in his tone). They were getting ready for bed when they’d come to the topic of book covers and Crowley’s job. 

“Still. I wish your side would have a little more, I don’t know… Decency,” Aziraphale said asbegan unbuttoning his shirt. There was some kind of irony there that Crowley would usually tease about, but his heart was too busy hammering in his chest. He’d stripped down to his boxers and was climbing under the silk covers of his bed, giving him a good, definitely-not-creepy view of Aziraphale undressing. 

Crowley looked down at the covers and picked at his cuticles. “My ‘side’... We both sell books, Aziraphale. We’re on the same side.” 

“Books against the world, then?” Crowley looked up, ready to snark something out about the shitty joke, but stopped when he looked at Aziraphale. He had pulled off his shirt and trousers and was in but his boxers. Crowley had to rip himself away from staring. 

“Just… Shut up and come to bed, angel.” 

Aziraphale did what Crowley had said, sitting down on the other side of the bed and pulling the covers up and over himself. He laid on his back and looked around the room. “Are those… My books?” he said eventually.

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s gaze to the shelf that held all of the books he’d been given since their first meeting. There were the copies of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and _Hamlet_, along with new novels by Wilde and Hemingway and Lewis. They were very obviously placed in a way that put them in Crowley’s view when he was in bed and on display if anyone were to walk in the bedroom. 

Crowley pulled the covers a little farther up his body. “Uh, yeah. Thought that’d be a good place for them.”

Aziraphale turned on his side so he was facing Crowley and offered him a smile. “They look good there.”

Crowley returned the smile and turned on his side as well. “I like to think so.” He scooted forward a bit so that he was closer to Aziraphale then leaned forward and pressed his lips against the other’s. They lazily kissed for a little while, then Crowley pulled away. He pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s. 

The feeling of being utterly content settled in his stomach like a warm meal. Aziraphale’s presence next to him was a comfort like nothing he’d ever experienced. Crowley moved forward until he was laying directly next to Aziraphale, then tucked his head under Aziraphale’s chin.

They spent the rest of the night like that and Crowley felt more at peace than he had in _years_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh we're so close to the end :( stay tuned to see what happens to these two wild book boys!
> 
> i hope you love them as much as i do b/c they put so much joy in my heart
> 
> also btw this is the longest fic i've ever put out by far and im really glad you're all on this journey with me :) <3


	5. Chapter 5

If you had told Crowley five years ago that he’d one day find love in a bookshop owner who thought that tartan was stylish and the key to happiness was shoe cleaner, he probably would have smacked you. If you’d told him two years ago, he’d laugh you off and then go home and contemplate the possibility of him finding love in _anyone_. If you’d told him one year ago, he might’ve actually believed it, but only after you’d told him it was Aziraphale you were talking about. 

Before they had started dating, Crowley was dead-set on never finding love and leading his life filled with empty sexual trysts and vacant friendships. Ever since his mum had thrown him out when he was younger for being a little different, he’d thought that the only way to survive was to wall himself off and lead an empty life. It had gotten him success and wealth but had left a huge hole somewhere deep inside of himself that he didn’t like to think about. 

Luckily, Aziraphale filled that hole rather quickly (along with others, which is a vaguely gross thing to say and the author is regretting this description). Aziraphale was all Crowley had needed and more. He was sweet, he was considerate, and he was seemingly Crowley’s other half. They completed each other in a way that was so sappy and sweet and utterly romantic that Crowley couldn’t help but love it. He couldn’t help but love Aziraphale. _God_, he loved Aziraphale. It showed in everything he did. The smiling gazes, the vulnerability, the consideration, the opening up - Crowley showed how much he loved Aziraphale in almost everything he did. And he never hesitated to simply say it out loud, either. 

It was the day that they’d decided would be their one year anniversary (They’d chosen their first date at the Physic Garden as the day which they’d become an ‘item’, just because it was a better milestone than the first time they’d slept together), and they were sitting inside of Aziraphale’s bookstore. The shop was only open for a few hours that day and it was nearing closing time. Crowley had managed to get through to Aziraphale and coerce him to open the shop at humanly possible hours if it was only a few each day. He rationalized that there was no need to scare off visitors if Aziraphale wasn’t as attached to all of his books as he’d once been (About six months into their relationship, Aziraphale had nervously explained to Crowley that Crowley had managed to fill the void inside of Aziraphale that he had once used books to compensate for and Crowley had fallen, if possible, even more deeply in love). From then on, A.Z. Fell and Co. was usually open from ten in the morning to three in the afternoon on weekdays, excluding Thursdays. And it wasn’t just Aziraphale who tended to customers inside of the shop anymore. Crowley had unofficially taken a job inside of the shop. After he’d started educating customers on the life of Oscar Wilde and recommending titles, he couldn’t seem to stop. Aziraphale definitely didn’t mind. 

Crowley’s work didn’t lend to him needing to be inside of a professional setting most days, so, when he wasn’t occupied, he spent his time in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop on a laptop, or behind the front counter, chatting with Aziraphale or sarcastically tending to customers. They had a good dynamic. Crowley would condescend enough that the customer was uncomfortable, then Aziraphale would swoop in, all smiles and pleasantries, and make the customer feel at home. They’d nearly perfected their technique, and it worked rather well in getting books bought, but their one downfall was ruining the illusion by forgetting that they were trying to create one and -as an older American woman had called it- ‘canoodling’ behind the counter when they thought no one was looking. Crowley’s greatest accomplishment was being the sole reason for the complete destruction of Aziraphale’s professionalism. 

“I’m sure that nice little place you like in Shoreditch will have a spot for us,” Aziraphale called from across the bookshop, where he was dusting a copper-plated vase he’d supposedly gotten on a trip to Africa back in the nineties. As it turns out, Aziraphale had led a well-traveled life before semi-settling down in his bookshop. 

“Not unless you unknowingly made a reservation two weeks ago.” Crowley looked up from the gossip magazine he was reading (there was a particularly ridiculous-sounding article about the Duchess of Sussex that had caught his eye) and in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale was balanced on a stack of books and reaching his full height to whack at a sixteenth-century statue he’d gotten on a trip to Japan with a duster. Crowley thought he rather looked like a Disney character. 

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale started, his voice a little distant as he reached farther up into the crevice above the bookshelf. “Have you not noticed that every time you’ve wanted to go to that place, there’s always conveniently a table available?”

Crowley was silent. Well… Aziraphale was right. The restaurant almost always had a line out the door, but there was never a wait for the two of them. 

“I assume that means you haven’t noticed that I’ve been supplying the owner with antique pornography for the past few years,” Aziraphale added. He’d turned his head around so that he could offer Crowley an innocent smile, but Crowley knew it was just so that he could watch his expression. 

Something akin to realization dawned on Crowley. “So that copy of _Teleny_ I found wasn’t there just because of your Wilde fetish!” He put his magazine down and stood up. “Oh, angel, there _better_ be more.”

Aziraphale climbed down from his stack of books (which had a rag placed over the top book to protect it from Aziraphale’s shoe) and gathered them up in his arms. “Of course there’s more, dear. Have you really not explored this place yet?”

Crowley followed Aziraphale like a puppy into the back room. He watched Aziraphale put the books down and lean against a counter. “I… I’ve looked around, but I’ve never seen much of anything like _that_.” Crowley walked towards Aziraphale and snaked his hands around his hips. He leaned forward and nipped at his lip. 

“When we come back from dinner I’ll give you a little tour,” Aziraphale said, his tone a bit more velvety. 

“Oh, will you then?” Crowley smiled and it reminded Aziraphale of the sinister smile he’d been given upon their first meeting. His stomach did a little flip in response.

“Anything for you, dear. It’ll be an anniversary gift.” Aziraphale leaned in for a kiss and Crowley responded enthusiastically. It hadn’t crossed either of their minds that the shop was still open and a customer could walk in and require service at any moment, and it didn’t look like it was going to anytime soon. They were content where they were, in the back of Aziraphale’s (now nearly Aziraphale-and-Crowley’s) bookshop that now had many more houseplants than it had one year ago.

___ 

“I will never be able to look at him the same,” Crowley commented as they walked away from the owner of the restaurant in which they were about to spend their anniversary. Aziraphale chuckled. They were being led to one of the several dining rooms inside the restaurant (the nicest one, of course). It was a gorgeous place, filled with art from all different centuries and bursting with greenery, both real and fake. If it had been a nicer night, they might have dined on the roof, which had exposed rafters decorated with masses of vine and fairy lights. The entire place was absolutely whimsical. There was a reason it was a hot spot for those old and young alike.

“It could be worse,” Aziraphale said softly. “It’s not like they’re magazines or anything like that. He certainly wouldn’t be getting those from me. It’s a higher class version of what some would consider… low class.”

They were sat down and Crowley gave a hostess who’d led them to the table a little smile that very clearly meant ‘No we don’t want to strike up a conversation please leave us to our dining experience. She understood it loud and clear. 

“Still. I’d rather only think about it in the context of you. And me. Which is a very fun thought.”

Aziraphale went a little red. “Stop it,” he hissed and slapped Crowley’s hand when it slithered up his forearm. Crowley just laughed. 

Their dinner was a very pleasant one, and both of them got a little bit emotional when they genuinely acknowledged the significance of the day, halfway through the meal. Crowley was still in awe that Aziraphale had happened to him and that they’d gotten this far. Before Aziraphale, his relationships were never even real relationships. Now, he was fully committed and there was a surprisingly low number of voices in the back of his mind telling him that was a mistake. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with this one person who made the whole thing so much better, and he wasn’t afraid to admit that to himself. 

“Azira- Azra- _Angel_,” Crowley managed. He was halfway through his fifth glass of wine and it was starting to show. “I didn’t _read books_ before you. And I met you in a _bookshop_. That’s fate, baby!”

Aziraphale couldn’t help it as a laugh bubbled up his throat. He was taking his drinking a bit slower and was sober enough that he was well aware of how _not_ sober Crowley was. “I don’t think it’s fate, dear. I think it might just be good timing.”

“Nah, no way.” Crowley took a sip of his wine. “Things this good don’t happen ‘cause of ‘good timing’.” He put a snooty little accent on the phrase ‘good timing’. 

Aziraphale smiled and it was a happy, private little smile. If Crowley had been in his right mind, he would have savored the image of that smile. “Whatever you say. Dessert?”

“You know the answer to that, gorgeous.” Even though the statement was a little slurred, the sentiment was still the same.

___ 

After dinner, a fiasco in which Crowley had given a little bit too much information to a cab driver about _why_ they were going back to a bookshop, that ‘tour’ Aziraphale had mentioned before dinner, and a continuation of this ‘tour’ in Aziraphale’s flat (which was essentially just the floor above his bookshop), they were in bed together and nearly falling asleep. There were a few books on the floor around them that included titles such as Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure (popularly known as Fanny Hill), The Benefits and Privileges of Cuckolds, and, of course, Teleny or The Reverse of the Medal.

Crowley’s eyelids were almost at the point of giving out on him when a sudden question popped up in his mind, one that had been stewing for a year at this point. “Zira,” Crowley mumbled, hoping the other was awake. He poked Aziraphale’s bare chest and Aziraphale batted his hand away. “What’s the story behind the statue on top of the Wilde case?” Crowley’s words were slightly muffled by the fact that he had his cheek pressed up against Aziraphale’s skin. In his brain, there was a hazy image of the statue of the angel wearing a three-piece suit and lavish jewelry. 

“Oh, that old thing.” Crowley could hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice. “It depicts my grandfather, who was a poet and a raging homosexual, actually.”

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale, his eyebrows raised. It was the only way he could show interest in his exhausted state. Aziraphale thought Crowley’s eyes looked beautiful in the low light of his bedroom. “The statue was made by a lover of his. My grandfather thought it would be somewhat metaphorical for him to be depicted in his everyday attire, but dolled up with that extra little touch. And, it’s blasphemous, which is on point for my family.”

Aziraphale’s family was comprised of either extremely religious individuals or those completely devout of faith. Crowley had learned that one night upon finding Aziraphale particularly distressed after they’d slept together, and had also learned that Aziraphale had spent most of his life battling with his own faith and what it meant in the context of his sexuality. It had been a bonding moment for both of them, and when Crowley had consoled Aziraphale and told him that he was his own man and the only voice he had to listen to was his own, he’d found himself listening to his own advice. 

“My mother gave it to me a few years after I came out to her. She said that I could make better use out of it than she could. She was right, I suppose.” Aziraphale looked far off for a few seconds, then looked down at Crowley and seemed grounded. Crowley leaned up with whatever energy was left within him and gave Aziraphale a peck on the lips. When he’d first looked at that statue, he’d hoped there would be some fantastical explanation about its origin. Instead, the explanation was rather mundane, compared to the origin stories of some of the other antiques in Aziraphale’s shop. He supposed that was good symbolism for their relationship. They had both led pretty fantastical lives filled with twists and trauma of all kinds, but, upon settling down, they had become a mundane, run-of-the-mill couple (If you ignored the antique pornography and houseplant collection more extensive than their relationships with other people). 

“She expected me to pass the statue onto my kids, actually,” Aziraphale said, his forehead resting against Crowley’s. “If I were to have kids, that is.”

“We’ll get a cat,” Crowley cut in. “Y’can pass it onto the cat.”

Aziraphale laughed and the warmth of it blew over Crowley’s cheeks. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s chest a little tighter. 

“Of course we will. And maybe a bird. We’ll take one of those ducks from St. James’s and raise it as our own.”

Crowley shook his head. “Nah. Too many of the Queen’s Guard. We’ll just take an egg. Much easier.”

“Perfect. Then it’ll really be ours.”

They were both silent for a few moments. Crowley’s cheek had fallen back to its place on Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale was sure he’d fallen asleep when Crowley spoke up just once more. “Love you,” he whispered, and it was so quiet and tender and _true_ that Aziraphale’s throat became tight for a few moments. He craned his neck forward and placed a kiss on the crown of Crowley’s head. 

“I love you too, dear.” Aziraphale reached to the side and switched off the lamp beside the bed. He pulled the covers up over the two of them and smiled into the darkness.

Crowley, who was barely clinging on to the last remnants of consciousness, could only think about how very, impossibly, _perfectly_ lucky he was.

~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no!!! it's over!!!! omg!!! i feel so empty knowing i won't be updating this baby every few days :(:(
> 
> y'all are basically the reason this fic kept going. all of your comments made me so incredibly happy and kept me motivated to continue writing this <3<3
> 
> just some inside stuff: this story was originally going to see aziraphale actually being an angel! the statue was supposed to actually be aziraphale and the antiques in the shop were supposed to be things he'd collected throughout his years on earth. i realized pretty early on that that might ruin the beauty of a simple human!au, so i scrapped that and made the boys normal (but still odd) beings just like you and me! (unless you're a supernatural being of unlimited power. in that case, please hmu). this story has been such an important journey for me as a writer and i hope you all enjoyed it! feel free to leave me some comments and come talk to me at my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/azi-bentley-crowley)! maybe i'll even write a sequel one day, who knows! 
> 
> i love you all and i really hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3


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